Dust
by B. Murakawa
Summary: Sarah in the bookstore.


disclaimor: nope, still don't own 'em.

author's notes: short little fic starring sarah. i think this fills my social issues quota for the week.

**Dust**

_All we are is dust in the wind._  
--Kansas

Sarah Jacobs doesn't hold time on a silver leash, and is in fact on her metaphorical feet from dawn until dusk, sewing and cleaning and trying to make a few cents off of her piecework and clothes, clothes that range from the simple white shirts working men wear to elaborate, lace-edged dresses for women who are much better off than she. It occurs to her every once in a while that she's missing something important and that it's hurting her, somehow, living each and every day like the one before it and never throwing herself completely to passion or...well, whatever it is that people throw themselves to.

Despite that perplexing sense of pointlessness, she's used to her rather sheltered life, likes to wake up in the morning and exchange an affectionate glance with her father, watch Les and David drag themselves to the kitchen sink to wash up and then grab a quick breakfast before heading out to work. Covers herself with yards and yards of fabric, the thread water-smooth against her skin, bent over this or that article of clothing. Her mother's shadow falls over her for a few minutes, hinting at things she knows Mama wants to say but can't (hate this city it's so dark all the time i want to go home want to slow down want it to be easy for you) and suddenly, the sound of retreating footsteps.

Jack Kelly made his entrance like the shooting star he is, and it was a wild disregard for the rules that everyone else seemed caught up in that first endeared him to Sarah. He was fast new different and he was hers for a little while; before she could even really love him, he was gone. No thunderstorm there, only a last playful kiss on her cheek and then suddenly he was stopping by the Jacobs' tenement to chat with David and Mr. Jacobs and Sarah tried not to let it get to her.

It does anyway, and she wonders what his kisses might have been like if they'd only gone a little deeper, and what would've come after that, anyway? Afraid to ask her mother, it really isn't something to discuss with her mother, what would her mother say?

Nothing changes, except that Jack exists in her head instead of in her arms, and gradually he loses his face until he is no longer even a person, just a nonentity representing all that Sarah is ignorant of.

She heads for the market this morning--it's a Friday, and every Friday she tries to sell as much of her sewing as possible. It's a slow day, though--she only manages to part with half a basketful of clothing. So she decides to head home early; there's nothing left to do but put her chin up and take it like a lady.

A new bookstore catches her eye on the corner of her street, its windows newly wiped and a fresh-painted sign hanging out front. She hadn't noticed it before, and rushes up to look at it now.

Sarah likes to read, everything from the thick, musty old books David buries himself in--books about the theories and thoughts of men long dead--to the penny-novels Les occassionally treats himself to. But most of all, she loves books about social reform; Joan of Arc is her hero, and she is a firm believer in socialism and women's rights--though she'd never tell her parents about that last. Lately, the only time any of them can read is at night, seated round the dinner table, spoons in bowls empty far too soon.

A bell above the door tinkles as she enters, sending high waves of sound bouncing off the still bare walls. Rough wooden bookcases rest against the farthest wall, and in the center of the room, a great number of books are stacked hitherthither, falling all over the place, like cards thrown carelessly down after a lost game.

"What're ye in me shop for?"

Jumps a mile, the hairs on the back of her neck on end. When she realizes the speaker is a short little man who'd apparently been ducking behind the counter, she says, "S-sorry, I was just--it was unlocked."

"Was it?" The man frowns. "Must've forgot...well, what'll ye be wantin'?"

"I...that is...when you--the shop, I mean. When the shop is open. I'd like to look at those books." Gives a half-hearted wave towards the mountain of hardbacks and paperbacks scattered across the floor. 

"Books? What's a girl pretty as ye be foolin' 'round with books for?" The man made it sound like the most scandalous thing he'd ever heard.

Blushing with suppressed anger, Sarah murmurs demurely, "I want a book for my brother." Liar. She can be such a liar.

"Ah, that makes sense, now. Come back next week."

"Yes. I will." Smiles and returns to the sunny streets, humming to herself--though she'd be the first to admit she can't carry a tune in a bucket. The humiliation of being a woman and therefore being forever thought of as weak and stupid still stings. Stings and makes her insides churn in a disturbing way.


End file.
